Saito Dies at the End
by Jack Mackerel
Summary: Stop. Don't read this story. It might be too late already - I think that's how some kid named Saito and my best friend John got into this mess, fighting complete dicks in armor in some faraway land. Trash your computer, because if you don't, you'll be stuck here with us. (Two stoners and a Japanese kid save Halkeginia from eldritch daemons... and themselves.)


A caveat.

Those unfamiliar with "John Dies at the End" should familiarize themselves with it, but the author of the story will provide exposition for you lot. The author of this puerile story must note that, in the interest of balance, replaced all the shameless fanservice with stupid dick jokes and disgusting puns. The author insists that a horror-stoner comedy is much better than otaku bait, and the author was then consumed by a massive organic computer.

The author also warns that he has not read the sequel to "John Dies at the End".

* * *

My name is David Wong.

"What?" The girl from Les Miserables asks, taken aback and probably a heartbeat away from punching me. She managed to stop long enough mid-rant to wave a flimsy stick right at my face.

"David. Wong." I repeat.

Riddle me this:

You're on your porch somewhere in some shithole Midwest town of the good ol' U. S. of A, sitting on your rocking chair like a senile man at 5 AM in the morning, when those light blue shades of morning are just coloring the canvas of the sky (or whatever shit that Ross asshole used to talk about), and you're too tired to appreciate them. Because you were up all night, dreaming of spiders ripping out peoples' tongues and burrowing into their brains from the inside. But you still can appreciate the small things, like the cool morning breeze that raises every pore on your skin, or you scalding your tongue on a mug of supermarket coffee, probably ground out from exotic cat shit.

You are also closing your eyes and trying to drown out the noise of the world. The noise of the world includes autumn's bounty of falling golden and red leaves ruining your diseased little yard, random cars passing by, and your answering machine, which is full to bursting with messages from your friend named John.

John, who is currently alternating between drunken renditions of "Whip It Good" and morose blubbering about how his latest Japanese porn had chicks with dicks ("TWO TIMES THE FUN", he's wailing right now), is your best friend. You don't know how, or why, you guess it's fate and the fact you had been the only two non-people-interested-in-beating-up-others-for-shits-and-giggles sort of person in your Special Ed class.

John is the reason you can safely brag that you were drugged and taken to a strip club in St. Louis called "These Bitches Show You Their Titties" and why you're paranoid about a shirtless man with jeans pulled up to his rippling abs showing up at your door.

John pauses, and asks me – er, you – about the glowing green hole that just appeared in the middle of the porch, right in front of you.

What do you do?

For me, I screamed a little – not a little girly scream, mind you, like the sort that Arnold Schwarzenegger would – and stumbled off my rocking chair, trying to get as far away from the shimmery thing. It looked like a screwed up oval, about as big as a basketball player, and was thinner than my ex-girlfriend. Like, razor thin.

The last time a portal like this appeared, four kids came along and saved the pile of shit world that was on the other end. Unfortunately, the nearest school bus just rounded the corner, so I was stuck here waiting and praying to whatever deity that was fucking with me that it didn't drag me in.

Seconds ticked by.

"Dave. Dave. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVE DAVE DAVE DAVE. Dave. Stop being a pussy," the answering machine implored.

"Fuck off, John, this is the last time-"

John, to some relief, cut off my dumb little cliched line with another one that made my heart explode out of my chest. Metaphorically, of course.

"Dave. Dave. There's another one like it in my room. I'm going to kick it."

"GODDAMNIT, JOHN-"

The next few seconds I'm not sure of. I wasn't looking too hard, since I was busy screaming at the answering machine for John not to fuck with it, but I'm sure this part happened. John's not a very scrawny man, but that was definitely his pajamas on the long, hairy, ten-foot-long leg that shot out from the portal and kicked me in the nuts.

I remember falling over towards my rocking chair, but not _in_ the portal. Despite that...

Okay, here's another riddle. Last one, I promise.

You've been pulled from your shithole town, named UNDISCLOSED, by the girl from Les Miserables as some sort of horrible wizarding ceremony. She's not _the_ girl from Les Miserables, but it's better than calling her Angry French Midget for the rest of this riddle. She does not look happy to see you at all, in some weird halfway between surprise and a murderous desire to kill me.

You've inadvertently body-slammed some scrawny Japanese kid onto lush green grass that does not grow in UNDISCLOSED. The Japanese kid's eyes are saying what your mouth is spewing: "What the fuck?" You really want to ask him a question about what just happened, but you know that's dumb as fuck, so you settle for: "Are you okay, kid?"

"Wait, foreigner, how do you know Japanese?" He asks you in Japanese.

"Sorry, I don't know Japanese," you respond in perfect Japanese, as you turn away to politely swat the stick that's been poking your cheek. Stop sniggering, you know what I mean.

The girl from Les Miserables looks like she really wants to punch you as her wand flies off. Good thing, too, you think she was going to cast a spell that'd spread your guts all over the grass. "How _dare_ you touch a noblewoman!" She says, puffing out her cheeks. Kinda like a pitbull puppy growling. It's trying to be tough, and instead, you want to pinch their cheeks. No, I'm not a pedophile.

If you know the answer to the riddle, please tell me RIGHT NOW.

I quickly stand up, accidentally stepping on the Japanese's kid's balls, and survey wherever the Hell I am. It appears I've been sucked back in time to that last Harry Potter release, because everyone (except this creepy-looking woman with enormous knockers and red hair that was probably here to pick up kids, or maybe was someone's embarrassing mom) were in stupid wizard robes over school uniforms, and holding wands of all things. Though, I don't remember dragons or giant moles at the Harry Potter release... not that I was there, I mean. Young adult fiction was for kids, really.

The kids around her were whispering, looking at me like I was an animated pile of dogshit, or, in the case of the creepy woman, giggling and pointing and laughing.

"THIS is your... your 'beautiful and strong' familiar?" She cackles. "We never expected anything less from Louise the Zero!" The students around her join in, pointing and sniggering, whispering things like 'Zero' and other nasty, cruel shit kids dredge up. Naturally, this pisses me off, but before I can do anything-

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, CHARLES!" John screams from amidst the kids, and I see John's foot rush from behind the creepy woman's legs and right into the family clam, then twist his torso around to deliver a contorted punch to the nearest kid, some blonde no older than 13 and with way too much styling gel, right in the jaw.

While John is busy sending the kids into screaming hysterics and setting in motion the requirements to both get us branded as sex offenders for crashing a Harry Potter launch party, the girl from Les Miserables steps away, now more confused than pissed.

"Mr. Colbert?" She calls out, warily.

A voice responded. It was old and nasally, the sort you got from elderly math professors named Poindexter who got picked on when they were kids, and it yelled something in Gaelic or Latin, or whatever, it had to be a dead language. A white bolt of liquid-y lightning slammed into John, and frost began webbing over his skin as he fell over, petrified, into the grass. I have to say that I was slightly disappointed when he didn't shattered into a billion pieces.

Stepping past him and out of the pile of scared kids, clutching a giant staff that looked like an elongated baseball bat, was Stephen Colbert, looking incredibly annoyed.

Except it wasn't really Stephen Colbert. Maybe if Colbert was balding, wore these dumb, tiny opera glasses, and carried around Gandalf's stick.

At first, he looked me over like one looks over a mumbling crack whore who just walked into your wedding, and then it turned into the way one looks over your best friend (who may or may not be a little lost after crashing his truck into a signpost) after you've been away on vacation.

He nodded at me knowingly.

"Dr. Marconi sends his regards," he said, a nasal, whiny tone that a lot of older professors all spoke in.

And then, I knew.

See, if you had bought my book, _John Dies at the End_, which I'll mention repeatedly because I really need the money, there's this thing called the Soy Sauce. It's called that, because... guess, though it's not the nice, tasty color black, more like the horrible void within your soul sort of black. It's manufactured by the trillions of hateful, cynical, immature souls of the damned that fly about in the void between the universes, serving asshole abominations that you people call "squamous", "amorphous", or "assholish". It is, more often than not, made out of dead people, though I suppose some of them weren't really dead, and a few were alive before their skeleton ripped itself out of their body and danced on the melting skin heap.

John and I took, for better lack of a better word, this Soy Sauce, and it allows – well, allows in the way a master allows his slave to not die by eating – its victims to see between dimensions, predict the future read minds, ward off horrible spiderchickengeckohuman demons wearing shitty wigs, peer into the atoms between the atoms, pass chemistry class, and blow up- actually, I'm not going to spoil or bore you anymore, please read my book. Hopefully, by the time you've read it, I've gotten out of here and have received my hard-earned cash.

Anyway, like I said, the Soy Sauce... well, here's a detailed rundown. John always tried beating me over the head with a lamp whenever I tried to explain too much, but here goes:

The girl from Les Miserables is Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière, a girl who's been treated like shit, because she really, really sucks at magic. Except for the part about massive explosions, which I believe has no place in any educational institution. Suddenly, I feel less embarrassed about John assaulting tweens, since the little snot that John managed to throw across the field before Stephen Colbert froze him put slugs in Louise's lunch yesterday.

The balding guy is Jean Colbert, and I _still_ can't get over how much he looks like a balding Stephen Colbert. The Soy Sauce was drawing a blank on how the hell he knew Dr. Marconi – a guy who saved me and John's asses back in the first book, _John Dies at the End_, which you should buy – but given that Dr. Marconi seemed to be nonchalant about fighting spiderchickengeckohuman demons in the middle of Las Vegas, I shouldn't be too surprised that he knows an ex-soldier in the middle of...

Halkegenia? Halkengenia or Harkengenia or whatever. Either way, it was basically medieval Europe, except with less plague, assholes in armor decapitating kids, and guys whipping themselves on the back. It looked much greener and prettier, at least, like that long-ass movie John duct taped me to the wall to watch about rings and midgets who carried rings.

_Too_ green and bright. I take a closer look at the Japanese kid under me – Saito Hiraga, lived in Akibahara, Tokyo, wanted to go home to check on his dating service profile (managed to only attract a fat nerd in his 30s and an undercover cop trying to check if he was into jerking it off to drawn pictures of underage girls). The Soy Sauce also told me he was going to die, or something.

His eyes were... kinda big.

The Soy Sauce made it a bit too clear as I quickly roll off the kid, sort of glad no one was here to accuse me of being a sexual predator of some sort.

The grass was _way_ too goddamn green, and come to think of it, Louise's eyes were big, as well.

_Fuck_.

I'm in a goddamn Japanese cartoon.


End file.
